


The Gospel of Vanderjesus: Thirteen Glorious Futures for Mona Vanderwaal

by speakpirate



Series: Thirteen Things [2]
Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: F/F, Gen, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 14:18:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9552563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakpirate/pseuds/speakpirate
Summary: A variety of possible futures for Rosewood's favorite BAMF.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _Another huge round of thanks to lco123 for offering suggestions and feedback on an early draft of this story._

I.

Mona Vanderwaal swivels in her custom made executive chair, her view shifting from the Manhattan skyline to the frightened faces of her underlings. She plasters a somewhat dangerous smile across her face.

“Has anyone ever complimented your excellent taste?” she purrs towards the editor of Vogue.

The silly woman adjusts her faux-fox stole and casts a superior glance at her colleagues. “Why - yes.”

“Give me names. I’d like to fire them, too” Mona pauses to watch the poor dear’s chin start to tremble. “Tell me,” she continues. “Why is Hanna Marin not on the cover of our Fashion Week special?”

\--------------

II.

Mona adjusts her earpiece, training her night vision binoculars on the impenetrable mansion in front of her. Or, rather, the previously impenetrable mansion.

“The Eagle has landed,” Charlotte’s voice announces. “I’m in.”

“I’ve hacked the security feed,” Mona reports. “The target is upstairs. Third floor, east side of the compound.”

“Guards?” Charlotte asks.

“Two at the foot of the stairs. One outside the door upstairs.”

“Exterior?”

“Four on the perimeter, two on the terrace, one on the balcony. I’ve got ‘em.”

“I get three, and you take seven?” Charlotte complains, as she sneaks up behind the two guards at the bottom of the stairs and chloroforms them. “How is that fair?”

“It’s not a competition,” Mona says, rolling her eyes as she fires a series of tranquilizer darts that take down the men on the terrace. She runs, keeping low to the ground, and chokes a perimeter guard into unconsciousness from behind. She tasers another in the neck, then hits his partner over the head with her military grade flashlight. The fourth goes down silently with a karate chop to the base of his neck.

She jogs over to the side of the building and shimmies up the drain pipe to the roof. She runs silently across the length of the complex, then drops down to the balcony and quietly hits the last guard over the head with the butt of his own gun. 

Mona throws open the balcony doors and enters the target’s bedroom in time to see Charlotte leaning over the bed with a syringe.

“He’ll be out for the next twelve hours,” she announces, stuffing the man’s prostrate form carelessly into a modified body bag with a breathable mesh fabric at the top. “Good thing, too. Melissa has dinner reservations for us at eight.” 

Mona nods as she steps out onto the balcony and transmits a series of laser flashes into the sky with a hand mirror. “Hannakins and I are doing mani-pedis and mud baths at the Moonlight Spa.”

“The Condor is ready to fly,” Alison’s voice cuts in. “Extraction is a go.” 

Mona goes over to a bookcase in the corner of the room and pulls a hidden lever. It swings open to reveal a secret passageway. Charlotte hefts the body bag onto a gurney and the move quickly through the escape tunnel, which ends in a dusty field three kilometers north.

Alison already has the plane’s engine running, and she lowers the ramp so they can load the prisoner on board.

“One less human trafficker avoiding extradition,” Mona chirps, as they get airborne. “What’s our ETA?”

“Wheels down at Andrews by 7pm,” Alison assures her. “I promised Emily I’d be home before the kids go to bed.”

\---------

III.

Mona strides out onto the stage amid thunderous applause. She’s dressed in a white power suit, her hair flawless. The entire auditorium, five thousand people strong, rises to their feet and cheers.

She flashes a thousand watt smile and waves to the crowd.

A distinguished looking man in the back of the room speaks into his microphone.

“This is the scene on the floor of the United Nations, as the General Assembly officially voted for Mona Vanderwaal to become the first female Secretary-General. Her election also makes her the youngest delegate ever selected to the post, as well as the first American citizen.”

Mona smiles an enigmatic smile as the gavel is placed in her hand.

The picture lands on the cover of Time Magazine when she’s named Person of the Year.

\--------------

IV.

Mona is at the Foxwoods Theatre for the opening night of a play that promises to be Broadway’s next big hit. Working in the Mayor’s office has its perks, hard to get tickets being a big one.

Across the lobby, she catches sight of a short woman in a zebra print dress and waves.

“Aria!” she calls, and Aria Montgomery turns, a slightly nervous expression on her face.

Mona pushes through the crush of people and fights her way to Aria’s side. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Aria nods, and Mona steers them towards the bar for two glasses of white wine. “How’s Liam?” 

“Off again,” Aria says. “Off for good, this time.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Mona replies, not especially sorry at all. She arches an eyebrow. “You’re here alone?”

“I was too nervous to invite anyone,” Aria confesses. 

“Too nervous?” Mona repeats, puzzled. Then it dawns on her. “This your play?”

“I used a pen name. In case it’s terrible.”

Mona puts a hand on Aria’s arm. “If you wrote it, I’m sure it’s _ah-mazing_.”

Also amazing are Aria’s seats, which are front row center. The poor girl is in agony throughout the entire performance, clutching Mona’s hand in a vice grip as she watches her words come to life a few feet in front of them. The show itself is a wonder - the audience laughs and cries and blinks in disbelief when the lights come up after the final standing ovation.

“Wanna go someplace?” Mona asks, running a hand the length of Aria’s arm, then letting it rest on her hip. “Work off some of that nervous energy?”

Aria looks at her, her expression not exactly uninterested. “I’m guessing that would be someplace like your place?”

Mona smiles her cat like smile.

They’re tangled in the sheets a few hours later when Mona’s phone chimes. 

Mona rides out the last waves of her orgasm, runs her fingers through Aria’s sweaty dishevelled hair and grins.

“The reviews are in. Baby, it’s a rave.”

\-------------

V.

Mona sits across from the balding, slightly paunchy Senator Hadelson. She smiles politely while watching him cut his steak and spear a piece of meat that he eats off his knife. Table manners are apparently not an electoral virtue in Wyoming.

“I sure do appreciate havin’ dinner with a pretty little thing like you,” he says, talking with his mouth full. “But there ain’t no way the folks in huntin’ country are ever gonna go for some fancypants _lady_ President’s gun control initiative.” 

Mona’s eyes narrow, but she keeps her voice warm and enthusiastic. “The landscape out there is so rugged - what did you call in your campaign? The land of Freedom and Family - wasn’t it?”

“Sure was,” he says, grinning broadly and adjusting his Stetson.

“I was out there last month,” Mona tells him, pulling her phone out of her purse. “And I got some _phenomenal_ pictures. 

She flips to an image of a leather clad dominatrix, her breasts exposed through artistically arranged straps and a whip in her hand. The Senator is bound on the floor in front of her, wearing nothing but a cock ring and his cowboy hat. 

“The Grand Tetons are magnificent,” Mona continues, as his eyes bulge. She flips to the next photo, which involves a different paramour, this one wearing a Catwoman mask and a dildo.

“The Devil’s Tower,” she says, coyly. “You just can’t believe it until you see it, you know?”

The blood drains from his pasty white face, and he gets a smidge of mashed potatoes on his forehead as he tries to wipe away the sweat with his table napkin.

She flips to a third picture, which features the naked Senator splayed over a mechanical bull. 

“But of course, you’ve seen all this before.” She puts the phone away.

“Here’s the deal,” she says, dropping her voice to a dangerous hiss. “You’re voting for universal background checks. You’re going to propose an amendment to make the assault weapons ban permanent. And you’re going to introduce federal legislation to prohibit the sale of firearms to any person who has been convicted of rape, domestic violence, or stalking.”

He’s on the verge of tears. She pats his hand and switches to a more sympathetic tone. “It’s not going to be easy for you, I know. You’re afraid you’ll be cut off from the NRA honey pot! But just think if these naughty little snaps went public! Think of your poor wife back on the ranch, that look she gets in her eyes when she castrates the bulls!”

He gulps and nods mutely. Mona rewards him with a dazzling smile, then reaches over the table and moves the steak from his plate to hers. She slices it quickly and deftly, then takes a bite and chews vigorously.

She keeps him sitting there, watching her finish his dinner, for twenty more minutes.

She dials the President from the back of her town car.

“Spencer,” she says. “I just had the most _delightful_ meal.”

\--------------------

VI.

Hanna Marin is alone in bed, in her penthouse apartment at the top of the Vanderwaal Building. She’s wearing reading glasses and flipping through an issue of Cosmo with Mona’s face on the cover. “Glamping, gal pals, and the latest self-defense accessories - style maven spills all,” the magazine promises.

The big screen TV in the bedroom is playing an episode of Shark Tank featuring Mona as a guest judge. She flashes her signature weaponized heels at Lori Greiner when they get into a bidding war over a fashion line for babies, before agreeing to go in jointly on the deal.

“You drive a hard bargain,” Lori tells her, as they hug. Hanna pauses and frowns, trying to determine whether Lori’s hand is sliding down to Mona’s ass.

“This again?” Mona asks, as she walks into their bedroom. “You’re so cute when you’re obsessed.”

\----------

VII.

Mona strides out of the Capitol Building amid thunderous applause. She’s dressed in a jet black power suit, her hair flawless. An enormous crowd, ten thousand people strong, cheers wildly.

She flashes a thousand watt smile and waves.

“Madam Chief Justice!” a reporter shouts. “Does your confirmation solidify a new era of liberalism for the Court?”

She smiles an enigmatic smile and pulls a hot pink jabot out of her purse, fastening it around her neck at a jaunty angle. 

The picture lands on the cover of Time Magazine when she’s named Person of the Year.

\----------

VIII.

It’s a lazy Sunday morning, the watery sunlight through the curtains illuminates a cozy bedroom scene. Mona Vanderwaal is stirring under the brightly patterned quilt on the Queen bed.

The smell of coffee wafts up from downstairs, along with something sweet and sugary. Cinnamon rolls, she decides, still half-asleep.

A cat purrs at her feet, and she opens one eye to look at the clock. Nine-thirty. Later than she’s slept in a long time, thanks to the DiLaurentis-Fields girls inviting the kids for a sleepover the night before.

There’s a clatter from the kitchen. Mona sits up in bed and smiles. “Everything okay, hun?”

Moments later, Hanna bustles in with a heavily laden breakfast tray. “I might have licked some of the frosting off your cinnamon roll,” she reports. “I didn’t think you would mind.”

Mona pulls Hanna close, kisses the remnants of the frosting off her lips.

“How did I get so lucky?” Mona asks.

“I’m the lucky one,” Hanna replies. “It took so long for me to figure things out, but you never gave up on loving me.”

Mona takes a sip of coffee, then passes the mug to Hanna so she can have some as well.

\-----------

IX. 

The parade float is covered in carnations, carefully dyed to create an enormous rainbow flag effect.

Queen B, the multi-platinum singer and fashion phenomenon, is perched astride a white horse. The horse is wearing feathery wings and a rainbow horn to make it look like a unicorn. Queen B is wearing a dress made from melted doll heads.

She’s sold out stadium shows across the globe, been courted by the Sultana of Brunei, and won six Grammys. But she’s never gotten a bigger thrill than being the Grand Marshall of New York’s Pride Parade. 

“I love New York!” she shouts into her microphone, and the massive crowd of people gathered along the parade route whoop and holler in response. “I’m here to tell you something,” she continues. “There’s a whole world full of people who want to make you just like them! Who’ll try to put you in a box and slap a label on you and call it done! Don’t you let them! Whatever makes you weird - whatever makes you a freak - you hang on to that as tight as you can! Because we are here, and we are queer, and we are taking over the god damn world!”

The crowd goes wild again, and Mona Vanderwaal nods to the shirtless string orchestra behind her as they start playing the opening notes of her smash hit dance remix of _Every Breath You Take_. 

\------------

X.

Mona strides out onto the stage amid thunderous applause. She’s dressed in a white power suit, her hair flawless. The entire auditorium, five thousand people strong, rises to their feet and cheers.

She flashes a thousand watt smile and waves to the crowd.

The screen behind her lights up with a burst of color.

“Welcome,” she says, the microphone on her jacket transmitting the warmth and enthusiasm in her voice. “I’m here to tell you that your life is sharply divided. There is the time before everything changed, when your dreams seemed impossibly out of reach. And then there was the moment that you decided you wanted more - the moment that brought you here today, that pushed you through that door.”

She beams at them all. “Welcome to the life you’ve always wanted! Welcome to financial prosperity! Welcome to emotional abundance! Welcome to spiritual enlightenment!”

“Welcome,” she continues, “to the Gospel of Vanderjesus!”

She smiles an enigmatic smile as she holds up a copy of her mega-million best selling Self Help Book.

The picture lands on the cover of Time Magazine when she’s named Person of the Year.

\------------

XI.

Mona is in a private box watching the London Opera perform this year’s rendition of La Triviata. She’s wearing a shimmering silver evening gown and elbow length white gloves. Her attention is wandering from the soprano on stage to the audience members, and she examines the outfits and outrageous jewelry through her opera glasses.

She felts a jolt as she studies a familiar face. Navy blue evening dress, classy but seductive with a slit up the thigh. Diamond earrings and a surprisingly tasteful tiara. Melissa Hastings. Escorted by the Duke of Kent.

Melissa turns, as if she can feel someone watching. You can take the girl out of Rosewood, Mona thinks, but you can’t take the Rosewood out of the girl. It only takes a few seconds for Melissa’s gaze to land on Mona. The corner of her mouth quirks up, a small sneer of greeting. 

Mona discreetly pulls out her phone and types a message to her assistant. Two minutes later, the Duke gets an urgent call from the Department of Trade. Mona continues to watch as he bustles to his feet, mimes a profuse apology and kisses Melissa’s hand as he takes his leave.

Melissa looks over again and arches an eyebrow. Mona stares back, gives her a look of wide eyed innocence. Melissa is too well bred to laugh before the end of the Act, but it looks like she wants to. She gestures to the now empty seat beside her.

Mona stands and slips silently out of her box. Five minutes later, she’s entering the velvety darkness of Melissa’s

“Mona,” Melissa greets her, in a voice as soft and deadly as ever. “What are you doing in London? Planning to steal the Crown Jewels?”

“Hardly,” Mona replies. “I’m here for a hostile takeover. Virgin America.” She runs her eyes over Melissa’s outfit, lingering on the exposed muscles of her thigh. “You’re looking well. Europe suits you.”

“It does,” Melissa agrees.

“But a twice married Commerce Minister is no catch. I mean, sure, he’s an off brand royal, but fortieth in the line of succession? The castle dishwasher has a better chance at the crown. You could do _much_ better.”

“I’m done with American men,” Melissa states flatly.

“What about American women?” Mona asks, dropping her voice to a low purr.

Melissa casts her an appraising look, then leads Mona to the divan along the back wall, in the darkest corner of her box. “Let’s say I’m open to persuasion,” Melissa murmurs. Mona leans forward and trails a series of feather light kisses down Melissa’s swan like neck.

The sex is a blur of strategically unclasped dresses and stifled moans, with a white hot thrill of exhibitionism running through every moment, knowing they’re surrounded by thousands of opera aficionados with elegant binoculars. 

Mona draws out Melissa’s orgasm, keeping her on the edge until the final hushed note has sounded and the audience rises to applaud. She comes hard against Melissa’s hand just as the cast is taking one final bow. 

They take a few moments to comport themselves as the house lights come up. A few carefully placed hairpins, some covert rezipping, a quick reapplication of lipstick and concealer and they’re completely unremarkable. Two well dressed opera lovers, as staid and dignified as anyone else in the crowd.

“Any plans for the rest of the evening?” Melissa asks, a little breathlessly.

“What did you have in mind?” Mona replies.

“I wasn’t joking about the Crown Jewels,” Melissa tells her.

Mona considers the suggestion for a moment. “I get the crown,” she agrees. “You can have the scepter.”

\-----------

XII.

Mona rifles through the pages of a magazine as she watches the stylist do his work.

“ _White blonde_ highlights,” she reminds him. 

He gives her a casually dismissive look, but straightens up when he sees the furious intensity of her stare.

“Two inches below the shoulder,” she snaps. “But a little messy, understand?”

“I do this haircut all day long,” he says in a tone that’s meant to be soothing.

“What?!” Mona exclaims, sharply.

“It’s like having Marilyn Monroe in the White House,” he says, nonchalantly. “Everybody wants a piece.”

“You’re done,” Mona tells him. 

“What?”

“Get out,” she says, grabbing a pair of scissors and waving them at his chest.

“What’s wrong with you?! You crazy bitch!”

“I will buy this salon. I will pay your boss more money than he has ever _seen_ to fire you. I suggest you leave before I have you evicted from whatever hovel you live in or decide to disappear your body into a swamp.” She looks him up and down. “I doubt you’d be missed.”

The stylist scurries towards the door, and Mona moves behind the chair and takes over.

She looks in the mirror at her own profile as she stands with the model in the foreground. She picked the girl’s headshot out of a pile yesterday. She has the right eyes. Her make up is already done and it’s flawless. Mona examines the foils in her hair with satisfaction, starts snipping at the back of her neck. 

Another forty minutes, and she’ll barely be able to tell it’s not Hanna Marin’s reflection staring back at her.

\--------

XIII.

“Where are we going this year?” Spencer asks as she takes a long swig of coffee. “I have to plan my caseload for the year.”

“Disney World?” Emily suggests, taking a large bite of pancakes. “It’s warm, and we can take the kids.”

“Cabo,” Alison counters. “It’s warm, and we can send the kids to your mom’s for a week. I love them, but I want a topless beach in our future.”

“Not Cabo,” Hanna replies, waving a piece of bacon at them. “You two can barely keep your hands off each other when we do girls night in Philadelphia. I want to go somewhere and drink Sex on the Beach, not watch you two have it.”

“Greece?” Aria says. “Beaches. Museums. Luxury hotels.”

“Have you finally left your fascination with youth hostels behind you?” Mona asks. “No more making us stay in renovated windmills with sweaty Australians?” 

“You only hate Australians because Hanna was engaged to one!” Aria retorts, good naturedly. 

“And they were cheating at Scrabble,” Spencer adds. “I should’ve pushed them into the canal. Let’s take a vote.”

“Wait, are we voting on Greece?” Emily asks. “Or whether we should push men into the water?”

“Yes to both,” Hanna says, raising her hand.

“As Hanna goes, so goes my nation,” Mona grins. 

“We’re in,” Alison agrees. “I’ll start looking for tickets online.”

“Ali, I love you,” Mona says. “But we don’t all have to fly like cattle. We’ll take the jet.”

“When did you get a jet?” Emily asks.

“It was on their Christmas card,” Spencer reminds her. “They put the reindeer antlers on it?”

“Right,” Emily nods. “We’ll have to dig out our passports.”

“Or I can forge new ones,” Ali offers. “I mean, I wasn’t _always_ a high school teacher.”

“Don’t worry, we still think you’re a badass,” Mona assures her. “If you want, I’ll let you fly the plane.”


End file.
